


Noble Deeds

by valammar



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Crush, Awkward Flirting, Chubby Inquisitor, F/M, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Plus Size Inquisitor, plus sized inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 02:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10777803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valammar/pseuds/valammar
Summary: The Inquisitor is determined to assist the roguish rebel leader of Watcher's Reach, but carries suspicion when his lineage comes into question.An AU in which Neb romances Fairbanks.





	Noble Deeds

Neb led the charge along the mulch trail through rows of pale birch trees, paying special attention to rests between the chorus of bird calls in the canopy. Scout Harding had warned her that separationists, the so-called Freemen of the Dales, stalked the forest perimeter from the treetops.  

Even worse, she’d been instructed by the Commander to seek and reclaim red lyrium in transport in the area that may have ties to General Samson. The deformed monstrosities that guarded his caches had been human once upon a time, but now they sped like arrows darting through the shadows, unseen. The horror of a surprise attack felt so tangibly terrifying that her heart plummeted at the sudden sound of snapping twigs and shuffling feet. 

“Stop! There’s a disturbance,” she cried, halting her party only to hear Sera cackle behind her. 

“Venhedis!”  

She turned to see Dorian, having tripped over a tree root in a vain attempt to avoid stepping through a slick mud patch, mourning his now-soiled leather boots. Relief gushed from her lungs. 

"Gave Inky quite a scare with your stomping there, Dorian," Sera said. 

"Blasted muck," he grumbled. "They're ruined." 

"What? Can't you just wiggle your fingers about and _poof_! Dirty bits as clean as a Chantry nun's again?" 

"Elemental magics are far more complex than a _wiggling_ of one's digits, thank you." 

"Would you care to borrow my boots until we reach the refugee camp?" Blackwall chimed in. 

"And waft in their musty rank while simultaneously contracting an infection from them? I could, but _then_ where would we be?" 

"Hopefully someplace quieter," Neb heard him mutter. 

"Inquisitor!" The banter stopped when a scout approached. He wore another man's armor, hanging off his starved frame. That, or it had been his own, several full meals ago. "We are honored you could make it. Fairbanks awaits your arrival at camp." 

He led her through a narrow cavern and Neb noted that the stone walls were lined in scarlet.  

"Be careful where you touch," she said. "This whole tunnel is covered in rashvine." 

"We made plans to clear it, but Fairbanks ordered us to leave it be." 

The spindly weed caused boils at best and full limb decay or paralysis at worst. "Is the risk worth it?" 

"Keeps Freemen at bay. He knows they'd never risk to tread down here." 

"A naturally occurring booby trap, of sorts," Dorian noted. 

"Smart man," said Blackwall. 

The tunnel led into a chasm rife with energy. Energy, and exhaustion. Men secured rope bridges in a series of pathways above. In one corner, a woman skinned nugs for the night's dinner against a bloodstained boulder. In another, a blacksmith hammered on his anvil. Neb studied their gaunt cheeks and sleepless eyes. Overworked and underfed. Frightened for the future. There were plenty more like them journeying to Skyhold every day, and were it not for the need to house an entire army she'd have shepherded every one of them into the fortress until it was fit to burst. 

The scout guided them into the living quarters and what appeared to be a makeshift administrative office. "Fairbanks! Inquisition forces are here to assist in the refugee effort. I present Inquisitor Trevelyan and her comrades." 

Fairbanks bent over his desk, a humble slab of wood atop two old wine barrels, his fingers stained from ink residue while sorting through a slew of scrolls. His shoulders hunched from the weight of worry—a posture Neb had come to know all too well. She caught a metallic shimmer dangling below his neck and noted a round medallion set with the hand-carved cameo of a falcon in flight. Beneath it, an engraving: _Au soleil sur les ailes bénies_. Maker, but she was inept at Orlesian. _Something about the sun?_  

When he looked up she found herself stricken by a startling pair of silver eyes. His rounded face housed an elongated and angular nose. A thin scar adorned his right brow. Locks of mousy brown hair were pulled back against a receding hairline, and he’d clearly gone a few days without a razor. 

Though he was, she had to admit, ruggedly handsome. 

“Well met, Inquisitor.” His Common was heavy with accent. 

“Nice to meet you, too.” 

“I’m afraid we must keep pleasantries brief. The stories say you are an herbalist of some renown. Is this true?” 

No man would breach healing so abruptly if he wasn’t in dire need. Just as she once performed in Chantry clinics, she was ready to serve. “What do you need? Medicine?” 

He groaned. “My people are sick. Days spent toiling over what little information we have. These documents tell me nothing about what ails them.” 

“Show me.” 

He led her to a small infirmary near falling water at the far end. A dozen people of varying age rested in their bedrolls. They looked to be barely breathing. 

“When did it happen?” 

“They’d gone hunting. Freemen ambushed them two days ago.” 

“What are their symptoms?” she asked. 

“Shivering at first, then fever. Now, they’ve fallen unconscious.” 

“That sounds indicative of rashvine exposure. Are you sure this is the result of the attack?” 

“They know not to go near it and we keep remedies in stock. And look,” he kneeled next to a young boy, no older than thirteen, and waved her over. Neb sat beside him and Fairbanks lifted the boys’ sleeve to reveal a horrific sight: his skin and begun to blacken as if stained with ink. Rashvine could inflict hives, but nothing like this. 

“These marks indicate a lack of blood flow. This isn’t an illness. They’ve been poisoned.” 

“Maker’s breath, what can we do?” 

“The most likely culprit is a gaseous toxin made from deathroot and black lotus. It slows circulation and makes the victim sluggish.” _Damn them all to the Void_ , she cursed. How dare they prey on innocents this way! “We need Royal Elfroot. Lots of it. The standard genus won’t suffice.” 

“I’ll have my scouts send for it immediately,” he said. 

“No, I won’t risk any more chemical weapons on your people.” She rose, and reached for a bottle of lyrium. She’d need to maintain a strong barrier in case they met their own clever ambush on the way. “We’ll hunt for it.” 

“That you would do this for us…I thank you.” 

Thus began the first of many quests Neb completed for the refugees of Watcher’s Reach and their rebel leader. 

 

* * *

 

Recapturing Argon’s Lodge was no easy feat. Chevalier Auguste left her battered and bruised, and especially fatigued. The rivers of small cuts she could heal, but for the latter the only salve was a proper night’s rest. Sleep would have to wait until they’d returned to camp that evening. For the time being, she could relish in knowing that the refugees of Watcher’s Reach had a proper ville to call their own. 

“Lady Trevelyan, I wish to speak with you.” A frantic woman summoned her from within a small cottage. Curious, Neb told her party to meet at the gate and went to address her. 

“Yes?” 

“My name is Clara,” she said, “And I come to you with an inquiry about Fairbanks’ lineage. You _are_ an Inquisitor, are you not?” 

“That’s not precisely what my title means—“ 

“You saw the pendant at his neck, _non_? The inscription reads, ‘To the sun on blessed wings.’ That is the motto of the Lemarque family.” 

“The Lemarque family?” 

She nodded. “Their line ended when Lord Giroux Lemarque banished his only daughter Bernice for taking a chevalier lover. Look, I’ve written it all down. Word spread that she gave birth to a son in solitude, but the child went missing after her death.” 

“And what became of the chevalier?” 

“He…Lemarque ordered him slaughtered.” 

“Maker’s breath!” 

“ _Please_ , Inquisitor,” she implored. “If the rumors are true, I believe Fairbanks to be the missing boy. If you can find proof, we could restore his title! He could take us out of here!” 

Clara’s desperation endeared her and the pursuit ahead set her mind in motion. If she’d learned anything from her friend the Ambassador, it was the power of strengthening ties. After she’d assisted Josie in restoring the Du Paraquette’s, the Inquisition earned favorable allies. To bet that there was truth in Fairbanks’ lineage could spawn a new trend and reestablish balance to a crumbling upper class.  

“What would you need me to do?” 

“Take my journal,” she said, handing over a bound leather pocket book. “You will read historical excerpts inscribed there. Find the Lemarque villa on your map. Find Bernice’s child. Help us.” 

“I’ll do my best, I swear it.”  

Neb swiftly turned on her heels and made a trajectory to the gates. She’d barely made it past when Fairbanks interrupted her path. 

“Lady Trevelyan. A word?” He carried himself with an anxious mien. She could tell that he was tense in the way he crossed his arms. 

“Oh, Fairbanks. My crew and I need to be moving on. We’re on the hunt for Red Templar activity in the area. Have you seen any?” 

“Don’t do this,” his voice a soft plea.  

Neb swallowed hard. “Do what?” 

“I know Clara spoke to you. I came to beg—to implore you. Do not pursue whatever path she set out for you.” 

 _Why not?_ “She believes you to be noble.” 

“I am just a humble woodsman.” 

“As I am just a humble mage?” 

Fairbanks leered but she did not yield. He was hiding _something_ , and that something may be the saving grace these people needed. 

“Clara is a foolish woman who lives in children’s tales of heroic chevaliers and vagabond princes. Don’t let fictional fantasies lead you astray.” 

Neb lifted her chin in indignance. “We may find truth in fiction before the day is done.” 

 

* * *

 

"You really think this Fairbanks is some pisspot nobleman?" Sera asked. The elf crouched at the doorway of the sealed storehouse that Clara designated on the map, located on the property of an abandoned manor. Ghosts of garden parties long passed lingered among the overgrown shrubbery. The ivy coated brick crumbled from decades of neglect, and her tools struggled against the rusted padlock.  

"Clara's concerns seem sincere. If we find proof, he'd be a direct bridge between the refugees and the nobility."  

Blackwall gave an incensed huff. "Doesn't seem right to bore into a man's past outside his discretion." 

 "I happen to agree with our Inquisitor," Dorian spoke up. "Orlais could use someone like him; a man unafraid to change things." 

"I hope not. He could be a right proper Jenny, that one." She thrust her tools harder into the metal and gave a gleeful giggle when the lock finally gave way.  

 It took all four of them heaving their shoulders against the door to get it to budge, but Blackwall eventually made a running charge with his shield that pushed it wide open. A torrent of dust clouded their eyes as they entered, one by one. 

Neb immediately took stock, searching for any sign of the Lemarque family. Marble statues. Carved mahogany tables. A tarnished suit of armor. How would she know when she saw it? 

“Either I’ve succumbed to a vulgar woodland fever and hallucinated, or I may have just found our answer,” Dorian called. 

She, Sera and Blackwall scurried to his location. There, at his feet, sat a portrait—though nothing prepared her for who might be the subject.  

Gingerly, she lifted the worn wooden frame and carried it closer to the light. The edges had faded from moisture and time, but the resemblance was unmistakable. A man, clad in Orlesian finery, stared back at her with shocking silverite eyes. _His_ eyes. The man's soft mouth rested beneath a straight and narrow nose and above a dimpled chin. She nearly dropped the damned thing when she noticed the very familiar falcon cameo resting at the man's breast. 

"It's Fairbanks!" Neb gasped.  

"Not quite." Dorian pointed to something on its other side. "Look at the back." 

Turning the portrait over, the four of them leaned together and peered closer to the plaque. A fifth presence entered the chamber, foreboding and ominous, as they read the name. 

 _Lord Giroux Lemarque._ Dated over forty years ago. 

"It's his grandfather." 

"Maker's balls," Blackwall cursed. 

 

* * *

 

He watched her approach at the gates. The discerning crease in his brow indicated he already knew before she spoke. 

“Evariste Lemarque,” her voice trembled. 

Fairbanks’ face hardened. “That is not my name.” 

“You’re entitled to—“ 

“Inquisitor!” he barked. The miasma of commerce around them stilled. “I am grateful for what you have done for my people. You’re a credit to your title, but I insist that you do not delve into the matter of my birthright any further.”  

Neb kept her eyes downcast until silence fell over them. His feet shifted, and she met his gimlet gaze once more.  

“This is only temporary, you know that. But with these papers, you could create immense change. Think of what your influence could do for them at the royal court.” 

He glanced at her staff. “Tell me, Lady Trevelyan. Now that the mages have been freed, are you so eager to join the ranks of high society back in Ostwick?" 

A memory rose from her mind’s archive: one of scornful glances and shame. Her mother’s trembling hands as two Templars escorted her from the Circle, never to return. Had they not severed her from her family tree? Had she not been struck from their records as the family’s secret heresy in the name of social status?  

And had they not seized the opportunity to welcome her back only when their shared surname benefited them? And had she not felt grateful once disburdened of their duplicity thanks to Josephine? Neb cursed the Mark, the putrid green emerald grafted to her skin that lured the Trevelyans with their gluttony and greed.  

She shook her head with in a resounding _no_ , causing petals of arbor blessing to flutter off the protective wreath woven around it.  

"Shedding myself of Val Royeaux," he steeled his gaze, "allowed me to become man these people needed me to be. Could you not say the same of your Inquisition?" 

He was right. How different of a mantle was Fairbanks to Herald? Or Inquisitor? “That may be true. But Clara…” 

“Clara is my concern. Please, I beg of you.” His outstretched his hand. “Leave my past where it belongs. Let me care for my people in peace.” 

Understanding yet reluctant, Neb handed him the coordinates to the storehouse along with Clara’s journal. He glanced down at her, gently pulling the proof from her fingertips. Neb met his eyes and offered a gentle smile, if not a bit downhearted. She hoped to the Maker that she’d made the right choice. 

Fairbanks tucked the evidence into his breast pocket and surprised her by cupping her hands in his. He gave a curved half-smile in return. The smothering silence pervaded, save for the chitter of sparrows.  

“I know your heart wishes well for us, and I will not forget this act of trust. Thank you.” 

They held each other that way for a beat before something compelled Neb to lean forward. Maybe it was the tension buildup, maybe it was the overwhelming passion that fueled her in her search that hadn’t found a proper outlet. Maybe she was just stupid, but in one regrettable moment, she tilted her lips to meet his in a brief kiss. 

The quiet erupted into a babble of whispers and Neb pulled herself back as if life and limb depended on it. Dorian and Blackwall stared agape. Sera smiled broadly. 

“Oh, Maker, I’m—I’m so sorry! I don’t know what came over me. I have to go!” With that, she summoned enough mana to Fade Step outside the gates before he had a chance to react. Her eyes remained wide and unblinking. 

Her party eventually caught up to her and Sera bounced excitedly. "Ohohoho, wait till I tell Lady Josie about Inky gettin' friendly with our allies! I can see her face already! It's _grand._ " 

Neb's back and shoulders tensed at the thought. And now she fled from the scene under the eyes of everyone at Argon’s Lodge just after a handsome rebel leader complimented her on her sound sense of judgment.  

For the first time, she was looking forward to the distraction of facing up against Red Templars in the forest. "I can't believe I did that." 

 

* * *

 

Weeks passed. It was near dusk when they finally arrived back at Skyhold. Neb's legs ached as she dismounted her horse at the castle gates, but it was lingering humiliation that occupied her thoughts. Her entourage teetered on trepidation, weathered from watching the roads for wandering Templars and Freemen. She wanted nothing more than to shed herself of her travel-worn armor and return to the flowing freedom of her robes. Dorian handed off his mount to an awaiting stable hand and uttered something about Harritt seeing to his boots while Neb addressed the page facing her. 

"Hand these to Commander Cullen immediately," she ordered, retrieving Samson's papers from her pack. 

"At once, Inquisitor. One more thing: there's a man here to see you. I left him waiting in the gardens." 

"Did he say who he was?" 

The page shrugged. "See for yourself, Ser." 

She found him underneath the gazebo, pressing a hand to the ancient stone. The last flecks of sunset danced through the ivy, dappling his velvet coat in gold.  

“Why, what brings such a humble woodsman to my castle?” she teased. 

Fairbanks faced her and returned her smile. "To thank you. For giving me those papers." 

"It was for the best, I realize that now. Shouldn’t have let my own exuberance get the better of me. I hope you let Clara down easy." 

"She is under the impression that the evidence was destroyed under a Freemen siege." He crossed his arms and leaned against a pillar. "My mother’s secret stays with me, and with the midwives of the Fair Banks Cottage we called home.” He smirked at her surprise. “Yes, I chose that name in her honor.” 

Neb's eye caught a glimpse of the pendant chain beneath his tunic. "What was Lady Lemarque like?" 

"My mother was the epitome of Orlesian wealth. She cut her teeth on silver spoons and learned to count on pearls. But she never took more than she was afforded, and always gave more than she gained. When she died, so did the country's last scrap of grace." 

"You must miss her." 

Fairbanks paused and looked momentarily despondent. "Such is life, Inquisitor." Steely eyes landed on hers, like pilfered moonlight, and suddenly she felt fluttery as a fledgling. "What of your mother?" 

Few questions inherently vexed her. This one always did. "What about her?"  

"Do you carry the same fondness?" 

Neb wrung her hands, wiping the road's dust from her fingertips while she considered the question. "I have too few memories of her to miss. Templars escorted me to the Circle by my sixth summer. After that, we lost contact." 

His eyes flashed. "So young." 

"Old enough for imprisonment." 

His laughter was a low rumble. "True, Inquisitor, quite true. We have that sense of banishment in common." 

"Severed from status due to forces beyond our control." 

"And better for it," he added.  

Good to know her cavalier attitude didn't dissuade him, and it was nice to meet another who addressed their past with an amused demeanor. "Here's to being two estranged nobles, I guess." 

"Indeed, and here's to being allies. I am honored to assist the Inquisition's efforts." 

"And you came all this way from Orlais just to say these things? You needn't abandon your people so swiftly. We'd have managed with a letter." 

"My people are fortified for the time being." He pursed his lips. "I must confess, there is one more matter I wished to address." 

The way he flushed, she knew. Oh, Andraste's Tears, if she could only evict herself from her own embarrassment.  

"Fairbanks," she sighed. "About that kiss... It was unbecoming. I should never have--"  

His hand cupped the back of her head and before she'd finished speaking, he'd pressed his mouth to hers. Her heart hammered a jolting cadence between them. When he broke away, Neb caught a wondrous hint of wood smoke.  

"From one estranged noble to another," his voice a low whisper, "we should reconvene soon. For solidarity's sake, of course." 

Eyes wide, Neb stood marmoreal as he offered a roguish grin, turned, and took his leave of the garden. 

"Well," she finally breathed. "Shit."

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this was "Literally No One Will Read This," so if you got to this point, go you!


End file.
